The waters cease to flow and my mind becomes a dry desert, void of any green and brown or dreams. Words fail me. Dedication wanes. I posture in contention with an empty screen, my silence doing little to reach resolution.
The tea pot whistles, the phone pings, a dog barks in the distance and I remove myself to interject where wanted or needed. Anywhere but that blank screen and my vacuous mind which refuses to fill it.
The dry times are the hardest. I remind myself it’s temporary; I list the ways, committed to memory, of how to overcome, outdo, move forward. But I am uncooperative.
I need new stimuli, a piece of starlight dropped at my feet, the feather floating before my eyes, but it’s all just lies.
I blame the hostility of empty souls, the long blankness of lock down, the right light, the wrong pen, but it’s meaningless.
Streams create rivers which become lakes and flow into oceans. Water wedges into openings, fills spaces, creates movement.
Stay open. Always stay open.



Writing is somewhere between a mystical experience and an un-tameable superpower.
strays, acknowledge it (close your browser), and come back to your breathing (which for a writer is writing).
I don’t like the word “can’t.”
Others have limited views of what they can accomplish and, therefore, what anyone can accomplish, so they believe their guiding you away from an upcoming failure.
Sometimes, I wish I was the driver of the Karma truck. But, I suppose, being a writer is better. Still have the problem of sitting too long, but we get to exact revenge too. The best kind of revenge – in print.
But, first, I had to roll my eyes and throw back my head. I just wanted some sympathy, some empathy. But she gave me more than that – she gave me purpose, building from ashes, and a way for me to transmit sympathy to another by relating to a scenario which many of us have experienced. (I know, still too vague.)
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